It was commonly reported around Carsonville that the estimable Colonel
Carson could tug more Satanic inspiration out of his yellow-gray goatee
than Satan himself. At the present moment he seemed to be highly
satisfied with himself.
He was sitting in his study at Carsonville, and with him was his son.
Bully Carson’s face was decorated with a large black eye, over which he
wore an eye patch.
He was clad in a loud checked suit, flaming-red necktie, and green
waistcoat. From one corner of his mouth drooped a negligent cigarette.
His face looked pasty and unwholesome, and reflected the same hard,
unscrupulous look that shone in his father’s eyes.
“Son, here’s where we even up with them Merriwells for good and all.”
Colonel Carson tugged at his goatee again, and glanced down at Merry’s
telegram of acceptance. He used the Clippers as a means to win money by
gambling. And when he did gamble, it was usually a sure thing. This he
proceeded to prove in his next words.
“Bully, I’m going to clean up a lot on this here Fardale game,” he
stated reflectively. “I got word to-night that Southpaw Diggs will
come.”
“Whew!” Bully peered at his father in admiration. “Pop, you’re a slick
one! Ain’t you afraid they’ll recognize him?”
“Not at Fardale. He’ll take a fictitious name and shave off his
mustache. I’m going to pay him well for it. Also, I’ve got a semipro
catcher to take the place of Squint Fletcher, whom some of the town
boys trounced. Squint was always insolent, anyhow.”
“Yes,” said Bully, with a scowl. “He didn’t have no respect for me at
all. Then you’ve got two other fellers from that outlaw league, ain’t
you?”
“For first and third,” replied his father. “Our own second baseman is
excellent, and with Southpaw Diggs we’ll have a walk-away, son.”
Bully nodded. Diggs was a famous professional pitcher. In his good days
he was one of the best in the country, but he had been let out by the
last team he had been with for drunkenness.
“Sure Diggs won’t get boozed up, pop?”
“Quite sure. He has agreed to let me bet half the amount I am to pay
him on our team. He’s also agreed not to touch a drop meantime, and, as
he needs the money, we can depend on him fully.”
Carson, junior, looked down at the floor, then lifted his one good eye
suddenly.
“Pop, I want some money,” he blurted out. “I want to get down some
bets on this game for myself, and I’m busted.”
“Nothing doing,” and his father’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll make a clean-up
for the family, son.”
“Aw, loosen up!” exclaimed Bully disgustedly. “You durned old tightwad,
you got more dollars in the bank than I have cents! Why, you own the
bank, yet you won’t come over with a hundred!”
“I should say not!” cried Colonel Carson, horrified at the mere idea.
“Ain’t I brought you up all your life? Ain’t I paid for them clothes
you got on?”
“Well, you needn’t holler so about it,” retorted his son. “I want some
coin, hear that? I’m tired o’ lollin’ around without any money to go
on, and I’m goin’ to have some.”
“Get out and rustle for it, then, like I did,” retorted his father
grimly.
Bully grunted with contempt. He had the same keen love for dollars that
his father had, but he did not possess the elder Carson’s aptitude to
pick up cents. However, he fully intended to get hold of some money to
bet on the Fardale game.
There was no doubt that the Clippers would win, none at all. With Diggs
on the mound the academy team would be helpless, to say nothing of the
other professionals who would masquerade as amateurs for the occasion.
It was a “raw deal,” but Colonel Carson was famed in sporting circles
for his ability to put raw deals over successfully.
“This is the surest kind of a good thing,” he mused reflectively. “If
Diggs shows up in good shape, Bully, I’ll get down about a thousand
that we shut them out without a run.”
“You’d better go easy on them fancy bets,” growled Bully. “That
Merriwell kid is liable to connect with a streak of luck and jab out
a homer, like he done against Franklin. You thought that was a sure
thing, too.”
Colonel Carson winced. Merriwell’s homer on that occasion had cost him
more money than he liked to think about.
“You may be right, Bully,” he said slowly. “But he would be helpless
before Southpaw Diggs.”
“He’s got the durndest luck you ever seen,” insisted Bully doggedly.
Colonel Carson began to pull at his goatee once more, frowning at the
floor. He knew that Merriwell’s success was not so much due to good
luck as it was to pluck, skill, and honesty. He could not blind himself
to this, but the knowledge only swerved his mind toward vindictiveness.
“No,” he replied slowly, “it isn’t all luck, son. Just the same, I’ve
no fears that he’ll be able to buck Diggs. There’s no harm in making
sure against all chance, however. If we could get him out of the way,
Randall would pitch. That’d cinch the whole thing.”
“Huh!” sniffed Bully. “You said that once before----”
“Shut up!” snapped his father violently. “I’ve had enough of your
insolence! We’ll fix that kid this time, and no mistake.”
“You will, you mean. Count me out right here, pop! I’ve had all I want
o’ that kid, and if there’s any ‘fixing’ to do, I ain’t goin’ to mix in
it. No, I’m cured, I am, and I reckon I’ll stay cured quite a spell.”
He felt his injured eye tenderly. His father continued to pull at his
goatee, and suddenly he nodded in decision and rose.
Going to a cabinet that stood against the wall, he opened a small
drawer and extracted a tiny folded paper. With this in his hand, he
returned to Bully.
“All right, son, we’ll let your goody-goody Cousin Bob Randall handle
this for us. You go over to Fardale to-morrow and see him. Give him
this”--and he held up the folded paper--“and tell him to get Merriwell
to drink it any time in the forenoon next Saturday. It’s a powder, and
all Randall will have to do is to shake it into a glass of water. It’ll
fix him.”
Colonel Carson’s eyes were malevolent as he spoke. Bully hung back,
however.
“No, you don’t, pop,” he cried, with something like fear, “I ain’t
goin’ to mix up in no poisoning----”
“Shut up, you fool!” snarled his father, glancing around. “This ain’t
poison, but a powder that’ll send him off into a sound sleep for a
while. It won’t hurt him in any fashion, but it’ll put him out o’ the
game for sure.”
“But what about Randall?” Bully queried weakly. “You tried to get him
to throw the game with Franklin, and he got sore. He ain’t the kind to
do this, pop.”
“Oh, I sized him up pretty well,” chuckled the elder Carson wickedly.
“Now listen, Bully: You work this right, and I’ll give you ten per cent
of all I win on the game, see? This part of it depends on you, and you
can do it fine.
“Go to Fardale and get hold of Randall. Talk to him slow and easy, and
get him madder and madder. He’ll be sore about not getting elected
captain, anyhow. Work on that string. Play him good and strong, and get
him to promise that he’ll give the stuff to Merriwell. Then we’ve got
him. He’s one o’ them fellers who’ll stick to a promise, no matter what
comes. But you’ll have to handle it right.”
“You can trust me for that,” said Bully, with a growl, as he took the
paper.
His eyes shone with vindictive cunning. He had tried to injure
Merriwell, but vainly. Therefore, it was quite natural that he should
bear bitter hatred toward the fellow he had tried to injure.
He saw that by working through Randall he would be freed of all
personal responsibility, and this thought cheered on his little soul.
He was willing enough to do anything for which another could be made to
suffer, and this sort of chicanery was precisely what he could do well.
None the less, he did not forget that he wanted money. He saw that his
father’s scheme depended upon him, and grinned evilly.
“Now, come across, pop!”
“Hey?” Colonel Carson glared. “What do you mean?”
“Come across, I said!” Bully lolled back negligently in his chair, and
eyed his father coolly. “I ain’t workin’ for my health.”
“Confound your insolence!” sputtered the other angrily. “You’re working
for me! I’ll give you no money to squander, you reprobate!”
“Nothin’ doing, then, old tightwad,” and Bully made as if to hand back
the folded paper. He carelessly took his cigarette from his mouth and
exhaled a cloud of vile-smelling smoke.
“Why--do you mean--do you refuse to go to Fardale?” Colonel Carson was
almost speechless with rage.
“Surest thing you know!”
Colonel Carson reached into his pocket and drew out two five-dollar
bills.
“Here’s ten dollars--take it or leave it. Go to Fardale and stay over
Saturday. Use this as expense money.”
Bully sniffed, and his father exploded:
“You’ll do what I say! Take this expense money and work this business,
and you get ten per cent of the winnings. Refuse, and you can go to the
dickens for all o’ me! I’ll not have a worthless thing like you loafin’
around here any longer, understand?”
It was the first time Bully had ever seen his father aroused against
him, and he was cowed. Reaching out, he took the money and put it in
his pocket with the paper.
“All right,” he said, “I’ll do it.” But to himself he muttered
sullenly: “And I’ll have a wad to bet on that game--somehow!”
“Ah, I thought you’d come around, son!”
And once more Colonel Carson complacently tugged at his goatee.